Isander

If today was your last day ...

He wraps arms tighter around the sleepy human. Dowling shifts a bit, and drools over Isander's chestplating, mumbling softly as one of his dreams tries to elbow its way into Isander's mind. He catches a glimpse of it, and smiles. Dowling has the naughtiest mind, sometimes ...

"If today is our last day," he whispers, softly. "Then I'm not going to regret a thing. Not one thing." His hand creeps up to brush over his beloved's temple, metal to skin, tangling a little in pale hair. Dowling wriggles, grumping dazedly, and one finger slips into the crease of Isander's neck, between metal edges worn smooth to accommodate him. Isander nearly laughs, and kisses the top of his head. "No," he muses quietly. "Not one thing."

And then the smile hardens, chills, and he hugs his fragile beloved tight as he stares out beyond the walls to whatever lurks there, whatever enemy waits. Even as Dowling comes half-awake, bleary bewilderment, Isander just smiles coldly. "And I certainly don't regret that whoever comes for us won't live long past killing us." He looks down at the man he's seen die five times before, twice because of murder, the man he loves.

"No. I don't regret that at all."